


A Taste of Heaven

by ChubbyHornedEquine



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Dessert & Sweets, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Holding Hands, Idiots in Love, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Lunch, Lunch date, M/M, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-05-15 11:53:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19295194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChubbyHornedEquine/pseuds/ChubbyHornedEquine
Summary: Aziraphale invites Crowley on a lunch date only to discover the demon can't actually taste food.





	A Taste of Heaven

**Author's Note:**

> Hellooo! I've only seen the TV show and haven't read the book so sorry if this a bit off the wall. I just noticed in my watching that Crowley never eats anything. He doesn't even have a plate of food when Aziraphale does and that got me thinking, what if it's because he can't taste anything? Enjoy! <3

It was the second Tuesday after Armageddon-That-Wasn't when Crowley and Aziraphale attempted another lunch date. Or perhaps it was the third Tuesday. Time gets a little wibbly-wobbly when dealing with ages-old ethereal creatures possibly of the occult.

We'll say it was the third Tuesday.

Aziraphale had been waiting at their usual table for approximately 13 minutes and was beginning to get nervous. Crowley, however, wasn't late and in fact had gotten there early but instead of going in, he resorted to old demon habits and lurked about. He, too, was nervous.

You see, a lot of things had been said during Armageddon-That-Wasn't when they thought it was Armageddon-Very-Much-Happening-Right-Now. A lot of things had been said and a lot more went unsaid but were heavily implied. It was those unsaid words that clanged about loudly, palpably, in the silence between them.

After a fair amount of lurking Crowley made is way inside where he found Aziraphale sitting at a small table, some tea, and a large platter of assorted desserts and pastries before him. Crowley jerked his chin toward the spread as he sauntered over, "That quite an assortment there, inn'it? What, we save the world and you thought you'd try some sinning?" He slinked down into the empty chair adjacent Aziraphale. "I don't know that I'd start with Gluttony, though. Maybe Sloth, after the week we had..."  
  
"Oh, hush," said Aziraphale, shifting in his seat. “They’re not all for me.”  
  
“Oh? Expecting someone else, are we? Is Gabriel coming? Oo, I’d love to see him again. Shut my stupid mouth and die, I’ll shut his—“  
  
“No, Crowley, no I…” he sighed. “Can I ask you a question?”  
  
Crowley said yes with a lazy wave of his hand.  
  
“Why don’t you eat anything? In all the centuries we’ve met and gone out for lunch, I’ve never seen you eat something. I mean you’ve had tea and-and I assume you like it.”  
  
“Uh…sure?”  
  
“You don’t like tea? Any tea? What about coffee? We’ve had coffee, too.”  
  
“I mean I don’t know if I like it, I can’t taste it. I can’t taste anything.”  
  
Aziraphale’s mouth remained open for a moment as he processed this. Finally he managed a quiet, “…anything?”  
  
Crowley shrugged, “All tastes like ash and-and nothingness.”  
  
“Is that true for _all_ demons?”  
  
“Dunno, never thought to ask one. I suspect it’s just me though. I mean, I let them taste the apple so now I can’t taste anything at all, makes a certain amount of sense. God’s got a twisted sense of humor like that.”  
  
While this was true, they consistently seemed to forget, unless it suited them, that I also have an ineffable _plan_.  
  
And it was going along swimmingly.  
  
“Wait,” said Aziraphale, “what about alcohol?”  
  
“Can’t taste that either and judging from its effects, why would I want to?”  
  
“Oh…” Aziraphale said, his shoulders dropping. “I see.”  
  
“S’matter, angel?”  
  
“Nothing…”  
  
Crowley looked from Aziraphale’s disheartened face to the platter of sweets and back again. “Ooooh. You got all this for me. For me to try.”  
  
“Well, it’s not quite the picnic we discussed…”  
  
“No, that would be too fast, wouldn’t it?” Crowley muttered. “It’s only been 50 years...”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Nothing,” Crowley said with a smile.  
  
Aziraphale frowned at him, “Yes, well, this seemed like a good idea.”  
  
“You can still enjoy it, I don’t mind, honest.”  
  
“No! No, I can’t now that I know _you_ can’t and never will.”  
  
“Technically I never _have_ and we’ve done this for centuries.”  
  
“I know!” The angel rubbed his hands together, “That’s a lot of years of guilt to catch up on.”  
  
“Oh, it’s not that serious, I promise.”  
  
The two sat in silence.  
  
Six thousand years is a long time to know someone. And two people, whether human, ethereal, supernatural, or otherwise, learn to think alike. Still, Aziraphale and Crowley will never be the kind of pair to finish each other’s sentences primarily because each person is waiting for the other to show their hand first.  
  
“What if...” Aziraphale started, “what if I described to you what it tastes like?”  
  
Crowley, who had been hoping the angel would suggest exactly this, pretending to think about it. He would admit, at least to himself, that he _was_ curious. It was one of his more defining characteristics, it fueled almost everything he did.  
  
“I mean,” he said as flippantly as he could manage, “if it’ll make you happy.”  
  
“Oh it would, it really would!”  
  
The demon shrugged and shifted in his seat and mumbled, “Alright, go on then.”  
  
Aziraphale took a deep breath. “Ok. So, this cookie here, it uh, it has a sort of buttery ta—“  
  
“Don’t know what butter tastes like, angel.”  
  
“Oh! Of course, obviously. Uh, nevermind. Let’s, let’s go with this one here.”  
  
Crowley watched Aziraphale pick up his little fork and take a delicate piece from a slice of…something and carefully consider it as he chewed.  
  
“Okay,” the angel said at last, with a gentle dab at his mouth with his napkin, “this is a chocolate cheesecake with a graham crust and—“  
  
“I don’t know what any of that is.”  
  
“And it _tastes_ ,” continued Aziraphale, “it tastes decadent and rich and—“  
  
“Those words mean nothing in this context.”  
  
“Oh for Heaven’s sake!”  
  
Crowley laughed, “It’s alright, really. You don’t have to—“  
  
“No, no. I _will_ figure this out.” Aziraphale sat up a little straighter, if that was at all possible, and ran his fingertips along the pristine table cloth. “Close your eyes.”  
  
The demon arched a brow and peered at the angel over the top of his glasses.  
  
“Please?” asked Aziraphale.  
  
With a dramatic sigh Crowley pushed his glasses back up and settled back into his careful slouch, one arm resting on the table top. “Eyes closed. Let’s have it.”  
  
“It tastes. Like.” Aziraphale took a little breath, “Victory.”  
  
“Victory?”  
  
“Yes. It tastes like getting away with something. Not a big something, not, you know, rebelling against The Almighty but more like…turning in a report of blessings done and temptations made knowing they aren’t going to check up on it and you got to enjoy a day at home.”  
  
“Huh.”  
  
“Shall I keep going?”  
  
Crowley didn’t answer right away. Aziraphale feared it might be because the demon was secretly laughing at him and the entire situation. But in actuality Crowley was still “tasting” this chocolate cheesecake and he thought he rather liked it.  
  
“…Crowley?”  
  
“What else have you got?”  
  
Aziraphale picked the next item and took a careful bite, dusting crumbs onto a smaller plate. “This,” he said, “is called a thumbprint cookie, and it has a raspberry jam center.”  
  
“Hm.”  
  
“And…it has a crunch that’s soft, like stepping on fresh snowfall. The crumbs are just as light. The jam is-is tart like, like getting caught in a sudden downpour, unawares, but also has a sweetness that is like looking up, once you’ve found suitable shelter of course, and seeing a rainbow. It tastes like a promise. And joy.”  
  
Crowley wasn’t the sort of demon that noticed rainbows much less would describe them as joyous (considering their origin). But he _was_ the kind of demon that could hear the smile in Aziraphale’s voice, the way the last syllable disappeared in a soft breath of contentment, and he supposed that was the same thing.  
  
When Crowley didn’t say anything, Aziraphale decided to move on. “This next one—“  
  
“What about your favorite? What about crepes?”  
  
“Oh. Wouldn’t you know I…didn’t actually get one today. Huh. What are the odds?”  
  
“Could you describe it from memory?”  
  
“Well, yes. Yes, I suppose I could. Crepes are like…” Aziraphale looked at Crowley, who hadn’t moved from the moment he closed his eyes. Not an inch. He was like a statue. His hand still sat on the table top. Aziraphale leaned forward and rested his hand next to Crowley’s. He didn’t touch him, but he thought of it. “They’re like,” his voice softened, “like a warm bench in St. James’ Park.”  
  
“Oh?” said Crowley.  
  
“Mhm. And a little like a terribly dramatic play that might not, well, _would_ not have reached the notoriety it has today if not for a small miracle.”  
  
“Hmmmm.”  
  
“But…”  
  
“But?”  
  
“At the very end, when it’s the last bite, it tastes a little like…like a bandstand at dusk with too much space between and somehow not enough air.” Aziraphale swallowed and said quietly, “A little like regret.”  
  
Crowley said nothing.  
  
Aziraphale sighed.  
  
“There’s bound to be more though,” Crowley said.  
  
“Regret?”  
  
The despair in Aziraphale’s voice was clear and Crowley scoffed in frustration. “Crepes,” he said. “Chances.”  
  
“Really? More chances?” Just like that the angel was breathless with hope. Crowley decided he preferred that.  
  
“I think,” said Crowley, “if I had to guess, a crepe might taste like endless chances. And one near-miss end of it all.”  
  
“And,” added Aziraphale, “pristine books in burning churches and cool water in an unassuming thermos and—“  
  
“Trust.”  
  
“Yes,” breathed Aziraphale. “They taste—“  
  
“Perfect.”  
  
The angel was very nearly sitting on the edge of his seat although the demon hadn’t moved from his carefully positioned slouch that was part cat, part snake, all Crowley. Aziraphale looked at their hands. At the sliver of distance between them.  
  
“Well?” asked Crowley. “Go on, angel.”  
  
Six thousand years is a long time to know someone. And even with all that time, one might still question their understanding of the other. Aziraphale didn’t know if Crowley, who still hadn’t opened his eyes, meant to take his hand or to move on to the next pastry. After some internal, mildly existential, angsting, Aziraphale decided on both.  
  
He gently put his hand on Crowley’s and was relieved that the demon didn’t pull away. He, himself, nearly jumped in shock when Crowley’s fingers shifted ever so slightly to fold between Aziraphale’s.  
  
He picked another dessert at random. It didn’t really matter anymore which was next. There were so many options. So many chances. He wasn’t going to waste another one.


End file.
